


into new memories with you

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Established Relationship, M/M, Memories, Romance, making new memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: The memory of teaching John how to dance--and his subsequent dancing alone--sticks like an infection in Sherlock's mind, this morning.In response to this lovely ficlet on tumblr: http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/post/159760196304/thepersonalblogofsh-dailytjlcreminder-in-the





	into new memories with you

**Author's Note:**

> impulsive response to this gorgeous ficlet on tumblr: http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/post/159760196304/thepersonalblogofsh-dailytjlcreminder-in-the

[The memory sticks](http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/post/159760196304/thepersonalblogofsh-dailytjlcreminder-in-the), this morning.

The bright, soft daylight of a sun just risen breaks through the curtains, streaking over the floor in tall, pale beams to just before his feet, like fingers that reach. Sherlock gazes at them absently, his melancholy mind projecting himself onto the scene before him in a solitary dance. The memory sticks like something gone bad: his cupped hand, curled around an absent back; the words in the inside of his mouth, voiceless; the thrilling, haunting deductions smeared like white ink in the corner of his vision, so tangibly present and yet not.

The years they lost. If Sherlock had only… if he had only–if he had only said it sooner, maybe. Said, “It’s you, John Watson,” when he felt John’s belly brush so tantalisingly, intimately against his. If he’d bent down: if he’d bent down and made those words at the edges of his eyes sharpen, high-definition, bright and blazing and never to fade again.

A part of him had known, of course. Had known and hadn’t taken. That part of his foolish heart–“sweet” it had been called once, this behaviour of his, and it had seemed right then, to let John go into happiness and be alone himself.

He derides this decision now (–if he’d only…–); he would do it again.

Sentiment. Foolish.

A light touch on the small of his back brings him back to the present. His solitary figure dancing among dust motes fades, like a picture bleached with age.

Sherlock inhales a tremulous breath.

“Hey,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s nape, lips pressed to it. His mouth opens a little on the ‘y,’ and the insides of his lips stick wetly to Sherlock’s skin. “Morning.”

Inclining his head, Sherlock clears his throat. It is awfully loud. He knows that’s because his heart is pulsing too fast–heightened auditory sensitivity–but it is still awfully loud. “John.”

John does not answer. The silence between them lingers, light, comfortable. John does not ask, either. Not what’s going on with Sherlock, anyway.

‘Can you do something for me?” John asks, instead. He’s staring over Sherlock’s shoulder at the empty space of their living room. Sherlock can feel him consider, which is confirmed when John nods to himself against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yeah. Do this for me.”

He steps out from behind Sherlock to stand before him, raising his chin to look up at Sherlock. In the dim morning light, his lined face is pronounced with age, and the grey of his hair dominates. There is scarce any gold left to it. The sight makes something behind Sherlock’s ribs ache. The though forms before Sherlock has any chance to stop it:

The years they–

“This isn’t going to do,” John says, interrupting. Then he surprises Sherlock, as he always–and still–does: he steps closer so they are breathing each other’s air, and then he grips Sherlock’s hands, one of which he brings around his own chest, the other of which he holds in his own hand.

Detached, Sherlock stares at where his own elbow curves around John’s chest, disappearing behind his back. John’s hand is in his, and the other hand is holding Sherlock’s shoulder, firmly, not letting go.

Sherlock blinks–and blinks–and blinks.

“Show me,” John says softly. His words are warm on Sherlock’s mouth, feathering over his lips. “I want you to direct me. Lead me, Sherlock. Show me where you want me to go, how you want me to go.”

Sherlock swallows the lump in his throat–tries to. It remains where it is, thick and tight. “… John, I–”

John’s mouth interrupts his. Standing on his toes, John presses his lips to Sherlock’s, closing them around Sherlock’s lower lip. He traces the tip of his tongue in a lingering caress over the inner contours of Sherlock’s upper lip, then draws back–just a bit. He speaks with their lips moving together, says the words right in Sherlock’s mouth as if he wants them to lodge in Sherlock’s belly so it is full with them. “I’m ready now,” John whispers, “and I’m yours. Lead me.”

His hand tightens around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock, eyes red and stinging, follows John Watson’s wordless lead.

In an unorthodox, somewhat inelegant pose, Sherlock leads them: his face bent at a sharp angle and hidden in John’s hair, Sherlock feels acutely the warmth underneath his palm, now no longer hollow. The back it is curved around and holding gently is present and alive, pressing forward so their bellies meet: a deep inhalation in, they swell together, pushing towards each other, fullness against fullness, no longer just a tentative brush. John follows him with every step, coming willingly, his feet not dragging but shifting skillfully in this one single dance he can dance, with Sherlock.

John, soft and needy, clinging to Sherlock and with Sherlock, because finally Sherlock clings back.

“I love you,” Sherlock says into the stillness of the room although inside his mind, a melody sings, a sweet violin. His fingers dig into John’s back, and the sound it draws inside his head is joyful and bursting–John’s body, his human strings. “I always–I always have.”

John exhales deeply into the side of Sherlock’s neck. In between Sherlock’s fingers, John’s tremble, a fine, steady quivering.

The imprint of once illicit, intangible deductions is lost in the dust when their bodies turn as one; allowing his eyes to open–when has he closed them?–Sherlock takes in the scene and sees their reflections in the mirror over the fireplace. Clinging tight, holding, leading and being led. Trust. Intimacy. Love.

When John brushes his lips over the soft spot beneath Sherlock’s jaw where Sherlock’s pulse throbs rapidly, Sherlock closes his eyes again and makes a decision: delete.

Delete that solitary figure once dancing with a ghost.

It is no longer true.

Newer, sweeter memories for older ones.

In the next turn of their bodies, Sherlock’s bare feet dance lightly, skillfully over the tall beams of the morning light filtering in through the curtains.

When they touch this remnant of bright, soft morning light, its fingers curl around his toes and ankles: warm and safe and present.


End file.
